Unwanted Fate
by ConsultantPerfectionist
Summary: In a world where each person is destined to affect anothers life for the better or worse, Sherlock has always assumed there was never anyone for him, he was quite content that way. Until his person's life was at risk, and Sherlock felt something for the first time. Will they meet, or will it be to late? Johnlock Slash
1. An Unwanted Occurence

**Disclaimer: Characters and story are not mine, blah blah blah**

**Warnings: No spoilers, slash, a little AU**

**Hi there, I hope you enjoy this little piece that I'm working on!**

...

An Unexpected Occurrence

'Let me get this straight,' Lestrade sighed as he collapsed onto the park bench, 'You're telling me that whoever committed this act of idiocy, is the same person who killed several people two years ago.'

Sherlock was barely paying attention, his eyes glued to the small screen on his phone, 'Yes, I am.'

'Dare I ask,' the forlorn Inspector muttered, 'Why you think that to be true?'

'I don't_think_, I _know_. There's a difference.'

'That may be the case, but until there's hard evidence and someone's been arrested, I can't just take your word for it.'

'Don't you always just take his word for it,' a sly voice said, nearly inaudible.

'Shut it, Anderson.'

'Yes, _Anderson_, be a good boy and go do something useless-'

'Shut it, Sherlock.'

Anderson took a step forward, Donovan a step behind. Sherlock, in return, slipped his phone into his pocket and glanced once, twice up and down the offending person, as if he were a small dog yipping bravely.

'Why should I be quiet, when this idiot clearly can't grasp the concept that I am a Consulting Detective-'

'That's not even a real job-'

'Oh and what you do is? The reason I'm hired is because you're too stupid to be able to do your job properly, so yes, you do have to take what I say and believe it. You know why?'

Throughout the conversation they had become closer, until Sherlock's curved sneer matched his posture, he was lent over Anderson like a viper, fangs bared. Anderson, however, had his chest puffed up and face scrunched into a tight knot, not dissimilar to a bull dog.

Donovan and Lestrade stood either side of them, the detective inspector ready to break up any possible fight, whilst she was only looking to add to the trouble, 'Please freak, you're not the only one who can solve cases you know, we weren't just hired for nothing.'

Seeing where Donovan was headed, Anderson piped up, 'Although why they hired a psychopath I'll never know. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and you'll be the one who put it there.'

Sherlock let out an animalistic rumble, his hands clenched into fists. Anderson wavered slightly, his tough exterior giving away to his sudden fear.

Then, he stopped. The heat was extinguished from his fiery gaze in brief attack of sadness, loss and hopelessness. The smooth curves that he had dug into his own palms were relieved of pressure as his hands became slack, arms hanging limply by his side. His posture changed from threatening to vulnerable as his mouth dropped open, as if he couldn't find the words he needed. He sent a tortured look directly to Lestrade.

As his knees began to give way, he swayed over to the bench.

Sherlock wasn't akin to feeling like this, like everything was suddenly very worthless and had no meaning, as though every happy moment he had abandoned him. He felt lost, alone and empty.

He was scanning his memories for any sign that this might have happened before, or if he had consumed something that his body was reacting to.

Lestrade's persistent shaking dragged him from his thoughts, Sherlock pushed him back with his arm, relieved that he had gained function back to his body.

The voices (namely Lestrade's) became steadily louder, swirling and thumping like a bass drum until he could clearly make out what he was saying, 'Sherlock! What's wrong, are you ill?'

'No-I,' He looked dazed and self-doubting, a combination that Lestrade found worrying, 'I feel like something very important was taken from me, only I don't know what.'

'You don't think,' Donovan asked, her brow knitted in confusion.

Anderson joined in with a breathy laugh and a shake of his round head, 'No, not Sherlock, it couldn't be.'

After taking in what the other two had said, Lestrade quickly turned to Sherlock and asked if he was in any physical pain.

'Yes, my left shoulder at the back, it feels like I've been punched,' subconsciously Sherlock dropped back into his deducing monotone, 'No damage, psychosomatic. But what bought it on, I've never shown any sign of this before. It may be neurological, but that wouldn't make any sense.'

Lestrade urgently demanded to see his shoulder, Sherlock refused saying that there was nothing wrong with him, but wielded as he was showing no sign of backing down.

By this point Sherlock was standing, his back to the three onlookers, coat and jacket strewn on the bench.

Lestrade had gone onto the tips of his toes and was peering down the back of his shirt.

Sherlock heard collective gasps from behind him, he spun round, hand flying to his shoulder, 'What is it?'

Before they had a chance to reply, he had begun attacking his coat in search of his phone. Upon finding it, he used the reflection to get a better angle, 'I see.'

His shoulder wasn't inflamed, the skin wasn't damaged, and there were no breaks or fractures, only the usual smooth expanse of skin and a glowing red mark, the size of a one pence coin. It shone from his skin like a beacon of light, it glinted with the same intensity of an evil cartoon characters eye.

It could only mean one thing. Whomever Sherlock was destined to meet, not necessarily to fall in love with, but still would have played a large part in his life, was gone, dead, no longer.

'I see,' he repeated.

Silence fell over the quartet, none of them quite had the words to convey their sympathies.

It had been approximately forty-five seconds since they had passed. Forty seconds since Sherlock had felt where they had been shot. Thirty-three seconds since Donovan had wondered, thirty since Anderson had denied the possibility, and twenty since Lestrade had asked how he was feeling. Sherlock had said, 'I see,' five seconds ago.

As quickly as he was first hit with the feeling of dread, an overwhelming sense of hope crashed upon him, nearly suffocating him with relief.

His heart was hammering in his chest. The others took a step back in surprise as Sherlock leapt to his feet, a welcome burst of energy tingled from his head to toes, rushing through his body as fast as rain falls from the sky, 'Someone must have found them, I can feel it,' He spun around in a moment of sheer lunacy, 'They must be using the re-fibulator, my heart is racing beyond-I can't-ah!' Sherlock broke of, clutching a hand to his chest as he tried to control his erratic breathing.

'Take it easy Sherlock,' Lestrade supported him from the side, waiting until he regained composure.

'I'm fine. Let me go.'

Lestrade looked at him skeptically, 'Jesus Sherlock, what the hell just happened?'

'Apparently whoever I'm destined to meet just died, and then was saved.'

'Poor girl, doesn't know what she's in for,' Anderson had already returned to his spiky nature, annoyed by his temporary concern for the man he loathed.

Donovan, however, was still taken back by the events that had unfolded before her, 'But are you okay? I mean, what just happened…I'd always assumed you'd never, you know.'

'What?' Sherlock snapped, 'That I didn't have a _soul mate_,' He said rolling his eyes at the phrase, he then looked at Anderson, 'No one said the person was going to be a woman, or that we'll fall in love and ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.'

Seeing the large possibility of another argument rising between them, Lestrade quickly intervened, 'Alright that's enough, from both of you. Sherlock, go home, we have enough here to catch the bastard. No buts! That's an order.'

'I don't take orders from you!'

'Would you like me to call your brother?'

Sherlock headed to the main road in search of a cab.

…

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	2. An Unwanted Dream

**Hi, just wanted thanks for sticking with it this far, I hope you enjoy it!**

...

An Unwanted Dream

Sherlock sat, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor.

_How dare, how dare he presume that I am unfit for work and then send me home, like I'm no one. And then, when I refuse, threaten me with my idiotic brother!_

Some wonder what goes on in Sherlock's head, brother bashing is the answer.

As a result of the boredom that currently was infused into his every cell, by the time the first foot had fallen onto the stairs, he had a name for the owner.

'WHAT?'

'I've got some milk and biscuits for you dear,' Mrs Hudson, the land lady, called from the stairwell.

As she reached the open door she said, 'Now I'm not your housekeeper, but I thought you might be needing some essentials, but this won't happen again mind!'

'Yes, yes of course,' he waved a hand dismissively as she bustled round the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson, out of the goodness of her heart, felt it necessary to put Sherlock up in 221B until he had either a roommate (not so likely) or found a more affordable place to stay.

She didn't regret her decision, but he didn't exactly make it easy for her.

The jars marked with skull and crossbones backed up her point.

'Would it hurt to do a little cleaning Sherlock?' She crossed over to the living room and sat on the sofa opposite his chair, looking suspiciously around her, checking for any more dangerous or possibly disgusting items.

He regarded her with little interest, then rolled his eyes, his head following the motion until it lay on the cushion behind.

'Don't be so melodramatic dear, it's not attractive,' she said condescendingly, then more tentatively, 'Is there anything you want to tell me?'

She received a rumbling response, 'No.'

After a short period of silence, 'Lestrade spoke to you I suppose?' It was less of a question, more of a statement.

Again, Mrs Hudson didn't move, she merely sat, with her hands crossed elegantly on her lap, her posture welcoming and her eyes comforting.

'It was just a moment, a brief time of emotional lapse, I won't be repeating the action.'

'You can't stop feeling Sherlock, you can pretend, but these things are written in our blood. Your person was in a life-threatening situation and you acted how everyone would in the same situation-'

'But I'm not everyone.'

'That may be the case, but you _are _human, and you're allowed to feel helpless sometimes,' she knew he wasn't going to reply, so instead of waiting, she stood squeezed his arm and left him.

…

When Sherlock opened his eyes next, the sky was dark, with only a paint splatter of white dots to illuminate the night.

Outside, the busy streets were down to a quiet buzz, only the occasional late night cab and office worker were there to contribute to the noise level.

He considered playing the violin, but the last time he had done that Mrs Hudson had confiscated his skull.

As a result of having no cases or experiments, or anything to distract him, Sherlock was left to his thoughts.

Normally, Sherlock wasn't a 'deep' person. It didn't take a genius to figure that out.

But (apart from Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's mother and much to his annoyance, his brother) few took the time to remember that he did have a heartbeat, and a head, and even though he would flat out deny it, he couldn't always remain emotionless.

Rude, insufferable and inconsiderate, yes. Cold, cruel and spiteful…sometimes. Frustrating, aggravating, punch-worthy – Sorry, I'm getting carried away.

My point is that, despite his frequent attempts at doing something else, Sherlock would have nightmares, and these would scare him.

For the last few hours he hadn't moved an inch, this in its self wasn't so unusual, he had been known to go for days without so much as a twitch. But the reasoning for his comatose stature was somewhat more saddening.

Shortly after Mrs Hudson had the flat, Sherlock had slipped into a deep sleep. After depriving his body of any form of rest (other than sitting down to perform experiments), the sudden exhaustion wasn't unexpected by the detective.

What he had dreamed about however, was another story.

The room was musty and dank. A stream of light ran through the tiny bared window, small, yet sharp and strong. It provided only enough luminance to highlight a crouching figure in the corner, laying down another person to rest on the dusty floor.

Sherlock was sure he there, not just a watching eye like most dreams. He knelt down, a black trouser leg now with a circle of dirt on the knee, as he grasped at the sand, finding himself unable to pick up the tiny grains.

Frustrated, he focused more on the two people in the corner, on closer inspection he could see they were soldiers, but nothing else.

The man crouching had his back to Sherlock, before he knew it the man had stood and left, checking both directions before he ran down the pitch black hallway.

The other soldier was lying on their right hand side, their head resting on their right arm. The broken light from the window illuminated the back of their body, all sharp angles against the wrinkles and folds of their uniform. What would have been a soft glow out lining the soldier was turned into a halo of red, the blood oozing from his torn uniform around their shoulder was lit up like lights on a Christmas tree.

Cautiously, he crept closer the body. There was only enough light to be able to see part of them, Sherlock wanted to see the face that was so carefully wrapped under the arm of the soldier.

As he inched closer he saw a familiar emblem sewn to their jacket sleeve, a white band with a red cross.

_So, an army doctor,_ he thought, _interesting._

Peering through the rays of light, he attempted to get a clearer look at the persons face. Every time he grew further towards his goal, they would seem to move further away.

After a mere few seconds that felt like an eternity, Sherlock grew annoyed at himself, and forgot that he was dreaming.

'Wait! I can help you,' he leapt to his feet and attempted to run towards them, but to no avail, they continued to be unreachable.

Panting heavily, Sherlock stopped and fell to his knees. Remembering where he was, he took a few a few steps back out of the light, and watched.

They were still breathing, but barely. Every breath appeared to be a struggle, until the camouflage coat appeared to swallow them whole, leaving nothing but a ragged heap of clothes and a pool of sticky blood.

'No,' not only was he irritated with himself, but he couldn't understand why the soldier had left them there, wounded, and just gone off to fight once more.

Sherlock caught himself crying out for someone to help the injured soldier. He paused, and found himself awakening, consciousness dragging him out of his sleep.

...

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	3. An Unwanted Visit from a Brother

**Thanks for deciding to venture on to Chapter 3!**

**This was originally supposed to be two chapters, but it's looking like it'll be five or six long now...**

…

An Unwanted Visit from a Brother

'Mrs Hudson, there's no milk!' There was no reply, 'MRS HUDSON!'

The next door neighbours threw something at the wall, Sherlock stuck his tongue out at them.

Still hearing no response from his land lady, he briefly considered going without any tea, then realised the absurdity of this notion, and decided to act.

I understand that this may seem a little dramatic, but for Sherlock, the decision to leave the flat showed how truly bored he was after he had unofficially been suspended. If I'm going to be honest, Lestrade had been waiting a while for the opportunity to get rid of Sherlock (only for a bit, mind) because even though he had accidently taken on the role of assistant carer to the great buffoon, occasionally, enough was enough.

Sherlock, still dressed in a pair of brushed cotton pyjama bottoms and his sheet, went to leave his flat. He then thought better of it and quickly replaced the sheet with a silk dressing gown, then slipped on a pair of black brogues.

Who needs matching clothes when your IQ is probably higher than the entirety of the east end?

Grabbing the keys from the small china bowl, he swept out of the flat and down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him as he made his way out into the street.

His designer shoes clicked forcefully as he walked purposefully down the pavement. Curtains swished closed when he passed, some opened slightly, their owners gawping at the strange man who lived down the road with lovely Mrs Hudson.

'Poor lady,' some would mutter.

'Why does she think it's her duty to look after that?'

'I heard he lives there for free, scrounging off an old woman like that, there's just no place to low for some people!'

Little did they know that to Sherlock, their reaction was exactly what he wanted. He had discovered a long time ago (after trying to impress his school friends with a dead rat) that if you can't join them, creep them out until they leave you alone.

As he continued his way down the street, pace at a rare leisurely stroll, he basked in the looks he was been given. The air fizzled around him with the warning of an oncoming storm, each curl on his head became tighter with anticipation and each footfall mimicked that of a thunderclap.

Sherlock was paying little attention to the weather, his mind focused on past cases, trying to see any possible links between them, the only form of paranoia he would allow himself. A nervous tick is what brother said, Sherlock of course then made every point of continuing it.

He neared the supermarket, the doors swung open before him announcing his arrival. Briefly, he stood at the entrance, the look on his face was that of an animal surveying his territory, when really he was just looking for sign that indicated where he might find the milk.

To others this may have been a simple, everyday task, to Sherlock, this was a new challenge.

Dressing gown wafting around his slender frame, he hastily made his way along the isles.

Whilst staring at the multitude of milk brands, he hadn't noticed the tall, well-suited man glide up to stand behind him. The man crossed one leg over the other, his umbrella taking his weight, and arched an eyebrow as he studied Sherlock, his head forming quick answers to the questions that came to mind.

With a loud, melodramatic sigh, he said, 'You don't even know what brand you drink.'

Sherlock sneered, his eyes not leaving the rainbow of packaging, 'The small things are irrelevant.'

'The small things are what make us who we are, for example, the fact that hadn't even processed the words written on the milk at home before you left to go and get some, tells me that you're unusually distracted. I've also taken note that you're not wearing a top, a little extravagant even for you don't you think? And since you are…_under dressed_ for public formalities, I can see that you've lost some weight, not because of a case, I had my people check, so instead something else. Which leads me to wonder, what on earth would have the great Sherlock Holmes tied up in a forgetful, semi-nude state and to top it all off, result in him showing emotion?' There was a hint of concern laced into his controlled monotone speech.

'You already know, so why don't we skip the formalities Mycroft,' as an afterthought he added, 'and I am not semi-nude, I'm wearing a dressing gown.'

Mycroft took a step forward and handed him a blue topped milk carton with a green label that read 'Organic! Not just great for the environment, but also for your health!'

'You need all the nutritional help you can get,' he uttered, and then said more sincerely, 'If you want me to, I can track them down for you, it won't take long.'

Sherlock took the carton, but remained staring at the bottles, 'You of all people should know the rules Mycroft, no meddling with fate,' he bit out the last word.

'But if I was to involve myself, then it would be fate wouldn't it.'

'Just leave it,' he waited a breath, then turned his head to look at Mycroft, he was surprised to find sadness replacing what he had imagined to be anger, 'Please.'

Straightening his back, he turned on the spot and proceeded to march towards the self-checkouts, Sherlock walking alongside him.

…

He stood outside Scotland Yard later that day(fully clothed this time) and debated whether to just walk in and presume his business of convincing Lestrade to let him work again, or to sneak in and blackmail Anderson to let him know the details on how the crime was handled. He went with option A, as Anderson couldn't be relied on to deliver accurate information.

As the lift doors opened with a ping, he stepped out and walked (making sure to pass Anderson and Donovan) straight to Lestrade's office, where he swung the door open to find a rather pissed off Detective Inspector with his feet upon the desk and a case file in his hand.

'Sherlock, I'm fairly sure I remember telling you to go home!'

'Yes, and I was at home, but now I'm here so let me see the case file,' he held out a hand expectantly and made a small 'give' gesture.

Lestrade snorted, 'I don't think so, not until you've got over what happened, you can't just go on like normal.'

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, his hand lowered slowly to his side, 'You've been talking to my brother haven't you.'

'Look, he called me to ask-'

'You have no right to help Mycroft keep tabs on me,' he said accusingly, almost in a childlike whine.

Lestrade let his feet swing off the desk and rested his arms there instead, 'It was always part of the deal, Mycroft would stop bugging you directly, and as a replacement, would start badgering me.'

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms, 'I am perfectly capable to work, it's better than sitting at home with nothing but boredom and Mrs Hudson's incessant singing keeping me company, it makes me sick.'

'Trust having a holiday to make the freak bored,' Donovan drawled.

Sherlock remained facing Lestrade, but bit back over his shoulder, 'I apologise for my brain not being as simple as yours is to find happiness in doing nothing, clearly you don't use it that much.'

'Hey! We are not staring this again, I refuse to have fighting in the office,' Lestrade said, sounding like a teacher telling off two bickering students.

He stood and walked out of his office, Sherlock then Donovan and then Anderson followed him. The large room was filled with people working on a variety of cases, from petty theft to serial murder. A quiet hum of hard working people slowly changed to a light natter as one person noticed the aggravated leader, the tall pouting man, the grumpy woman and the intrigued smaller man all walking in a row around the bull pen. They then pointed this out to their colleague, who then told her friend, who told his, who told theirs, until eventually the whole room was fixed on the strange quartet.

At least they were, as by the time they had reached the coffee machine, the lift sounded its' customary ding, and the shiny, silver door slid open.

They weren't anyone special, as in, they didn't have an IQ that would rival any of the Holmes', nor did they look like they had just stepped off the catwalk. But to a certain person in that room, they couldn't have been any better.

Jessica Newman (aged eighteen), located in the far corner of the room directly opposite the lift, was interning at the Yard, she certainly wasn't expecting anything phenomenal to happen on a Monday afternoon at the place she had an unpaid job.

But her luck had changed, and now, her person had finally entered her life. Whether they would be a lover or a friend, or just someone who would offer her hand and accidently change her life, no one knew. Nor did anyone know that he was anything special to her, until…

A slight tingle blossomed on the back of her neck. It spread, slowly working its way down her spine and through her nervous system, her insides fizzled like a bath bomb. Hers would be a gentle relationship, not explosive or dangerous, however, it was still too soon to tell if would a relationship of love of friendship.

By this point, he too had realised that something was happening, something he had only ever read about, something he had only witnessed once as a young boy. Nathan Wicke, twenty-one years old, had recently finished university, where he gained a degree in English Literature and was sent here by the same agency that sent Jessica there, only he was to assist on a case that required detailed knowledge on 18th century English.

The room had long since fallen silent, every person had their eyes glued on the newcomer and the girl. Both of them were entranced by their own thoughts, Jessica stood and turned to face Nathan, he smiled giddily and she returned the gesture.

At first it seemed as though they were blushing, entirely in their right, given that approximately forty-two people were staring at them, mouths agape. Surprisingly, to the curious crowd, the blush consumed them in them in a soft pink glow. Love, was the way they were headed.

…

**I hope you enjoyed it, please leave a comment if you have any tips or suggestions!**


	4. An Unwanted Rest onanUncomfortable Chair

...

An Unwanted Rest on an Uncomfortable Chair

A violent wave threw John into the corner that he was seated in. The middle-aged man next to him jolted awake, as he too was cannoned to the right, directly into John's wounded shoulder.

The man near immediately slipped back into a deep sleep, his head wound too intense to keep him awake for more than a few seconds at a time.

The large naval ship was ferrying the wounded back from Afghanistan. The rectangular ship held smaller rectangle boxes in, which held smaller boxes that carried the infirm back from battle.

Hidden in the midst of the box maze, a John Watson was huddled in the corner. He was entitled to a stretcher, but upon seeing some of the more gruesome tragedies, he had given it up for a shiny, blood stained bench, along with several other equally as damaged men and women.

Cutting through the raging Mediterranean sea, the ship battled the ferocious wind and the dominating weather. The sky above was a mass of grey clouds, the texture as dense as scouring pads and as angry as drunk who felt they had been mistreated.

With each crash of an outraged wave, a loud tin-sounding ring would echo throughout the narrow passageways and through each winding turn.

To the men and women being bought back from the hot, dry, crisp climate of Asia, the screeching of the water and metal collision sent chills like icy daggers through their bones. Yet, the more accustomed navy soldiers laughed at the weathers feeble attempts to throw them off course with rain bullets, and the seas attempts to push them past breaking point made a mere affectionate shove upon their confident attitude.

John looked around the room, deciding whether the people within resembled matchsticks in a box, dull sandy-brown uniforms with an occasional splash of red, or if they looked more like the inside of a slave ship.

…

Sherlock had been sitting in the row of plastic chairs, labelled as the waiting room, whilst he waited for Lestrade's decision on whether he was fit enough to continue working.

The room had nearly resumed its previous hard-working atmosphere, but there was still a quiet buzz of chatter, as they discussed the recent events.

Shortly after introducing one another, the new couple had left the building (with permission from Lestrade) and had gone to find out more about one another, and maybe why fate had chosen them to meet.

Meanwhile Sherlock, denying any sense of envy, had continued to aggravate Lestrade, until he gave up and agreed to at least consider taking him back on.

So now he sat, impatiently tapping his foot on the floor and looking for any links between previous cases.

Outside, the humid weather was making repeated attempts at worming its way through the walls, and gliding in through the open windows. Summer storm clouds gathered in the sky above, weaving a thick blanket of heavy pressure over London. The bad weather hadn't come as a surprise, a mixture of a few hot summer weeks and reports of violent storms throughout Europe had given them a short period of time to prepare for the torrential onslaught.

The sticky-sweet air was enough to get Sherlock remove his coat and blazer, leaving him bored, impatient and boiling. A metallic whirring coming from his left was almost trace like, the large, industrial fan swung from left to right, left to right, left to right.

His curls rustled restlessly in the light breeze, his eye lids fell shut.

…

John rested his head against the cool wall behind him.

He took a deep breath, then another, and willed the pain to fade away. As if by a miracle, the pain seemed to grow fainter, still present (the aching back and shoulder was a constant reminder) but John felt…Distant, almost like he was watching himself.

A light breeze blew across, tickling his skin, crawling over his exposed face.

John assumed that the wall behind him had the hot pipes running through them, as a comfortable warmth was seeping through his heavy coat, warming his wrecked skin and muscles. At first he had wondered whether he had caught an infection, or if his body had finally gained enough rest and in a sudden burst of energy, had begun to heal his injury, as the heat grew and spread down every vein and limb.

A little uncomfortable, he shifted slightly in his seat, arching his back and pulling at the material that clung there. It was no use, quickly, he ripped off the coat and sighed contentedly at the relief the metal wall offered for his sizzling skin.

The cool breeze was still present, the lull in John's thoughts stopped momentarily, as he suddenly realised that only a moment ago, he could have sworn that the wall behind him was the object that was giving off heat.

Looking around him, his eyes flitting from side to side, he searched for a source of warmth, only to find that no one else seemed bothered like he was. Everyone else was still wrapped up in layers of thick army clothing, and a few were huddled to get more warmth into their bones.

Noticing that he was only wearing a standard shirt, and was glancing around himself with confusion, one of the navy doctors made her way over to him.

'Are you feeling okay,' she asked, kneeling down in front of him.

'Yes,' John snapped, he recoiled slightly at his harsh tone, and then repeated more lightly, 'Sorry, yes I'm fine, I think my injury might be getting to me.'

She rested the back of her palm against his forehead, she was surprised to find the skin warm and damp, 'I think maybe you had better come lie down, you've had quite a trauma-'

She wasn't able to finish her sentence before John cut her off rudely, 'I happen to think I'm quite fine here.'

'I was merely suggesting that you move somewhere more comfortable, and you of all people should know when to rest, you are a doctor?'

She stood, bristling with annoyance, as John jerked his head up to meet her gaze, 'Yes, I am, so I also know when I'm _fine._ Why don't you continue to pester Lieutenant Stanley, you seemed to be-' he paused, shook his head and looked at her again, 'I-I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. Thank you for your kindness, I'll tell you if I begin to feel any different.'

By the time he had finished he was staring at the floor, she straightened her back and replied, 'Please do. If you hadn't been injured I would have knocked you out by now, but others might not be so forgiving, I suggest you watch your tone.'

Before he had a chance to apologise again, she had walked away.

_Where the hell did that come from,_ he wondered. He rested his head on the palms of hands and let the cool breeze wash over him as he closed his eyes.

Presuming that he had slipped into sleep, he was contented to let his mind wander.

He found himself in near the same situation that he was sat now, only he was in a light coloured room, and there was blur of people passing by, forming a wash of rainbow colours. It was the kind of blur that's formed when you aren't looking, or when weren't paying attention and someone asks you what colour top that person was wearing, and you realise that although you were just talking to them, you have no idea.

A young man and a young girl were seated next to him. At least, from the angle he was looking from, that was the closest guess he could make. The pinkish haze surrounding them made it hard to see their faces, and when he tried to ask them where he was, they didn't answer, only continued their intense conversation.

John attempted to rise, but found himself unable to move the lower half of his body, he felt heavy and stiff with exhaustion. His stomach rumbled, and a sharp pang of hunger shot through him, enough to make him hunch in pain. But surprisingly, his back no long ached, and he was free to move his left arm without any discomfort.

However, the heat still clung to every pour on his body.

Almost at once, he changed from being confused and curious, to envious and frustrated, with what he didn't know. John looked up again, but instead of a smudged mess of soft colours, everything had become ten times sharper, details jumping out as clear as day.

A creased sleeve, a broken keyboard, a small dent on a bin, and everything was linked, lines drawing his thoughts in different directions, certain places were enlarged as he looked past them. It was uncontrollable and terrifying , but at the same time it was exhilarating and made him want, nay need to see more.

He realised that instead of caring for the people, John had briefly only cared for the story.

'No!' John called out to no one in particular, 'This isn't me.'

Everything had stopped, and John watched as the colours merged back into the unfamiliar haze they were before. Any previous trace of sticky heat slowly melted away, until its greasy texture had been replaced with the bite of ocean temperatures, and the once cool breeze only got stronger and colder.

The couple next to him grew brighter and brighter until they were a blinding light that John had to shield his eyes from.

As he opened them again, he could have sworn he saw the outline of a tall figure with a long coat and untamed dark hair.

Before he had time to draw their attention, everything became darker, and he awoke to the cold, tin ship.

He put his coat back on.

…

'Sherlock,' he barely heard the voice, 'Sherlock!'

He groaned, 'What.'

'Do want to work again or not?'

Sherlock turned all attention to the silver haired officer in front of him, 'Yes, you know I do.'

'Then don't give me attitude and you can,' seeing Sherlock's eyes sparkle slightly with the beginnings of a mischievous grin, Lestrade added quickly, 'I warn you, it's a boring, standard issue case.'

'Don't care, give it to me,' by this point, he was standing with his coat and jacket in hand, ready to leave.

Lestrade turned to a woman behind him, 'Tracy get a team together, we're going to the navy docks.'

…

**Sorry it was late, but it was my birthday among other things.**

**Why not leave me a comment as my birthday present ;)**


	5. Another Unwanted Lapse

**The near to last instalment of my fic, so enjoy it while it lasts!**

…

Another Unwanted Lapse

The wheelchair jolted violently over every small crack or bump in the ramp that lead down to the solid concrete (equally as bumpy), so as a result, John grumbled to himself at the misfortune of being friendly and letting another soldier have the more comfortable chair.

This one had been hidden behind moth eaten uniforms and spare blankets in the very darkest corner of the supply closet. The once spongy cushion was now crispy and holey, the thin threadbare covering smelt of dead things and one of the wheels squeaked in protest as the harsh terrain threw both the chair and passenger about.

Despite the tortuous metal contraption, the sudden burst of sunlight and flood of warmth that hit John as fast as any bullet had, lifted his spirits considerably. Closing his eyes and tilting his head back, he allowed himself a contented sigh, followed by a moment of peace, the first in months since his departure to Afghanistan.

After leaving the Mediterranean sea behind, the injured had been moved onto trains which sped across France from Marseille to Calais in record time. Fortunately, there were no causalities on board that required urgent surgery, and no deaths had taken place on the rushed trek across the continent.

During the train ride through France, John had nearly forgotten his brief lapse in kindness, it was now a mild niggle in the back of his head, something to ponder on when he had more time, and wasn't chained to rusting, four wheeled seat, like a criminal on the electric chair.

'So, got anyone to go 'ome to?'

John was dragged from his warmth filled day dreams by the heavily built navy soldier who was in charge of wheeling him along, 'Uh, no. Well, I have my sister, but she doesn't know I'm returning.'

'Aye, I get what ye saying, sometimes family don't understand what happens out on the battlefield,' his heavy Scottish accent was as thick as syrup, with the bitterness of Marmite.

'Something like that.'

Sensing an end to the conversation, the Scotsman continued to push him down the ramp, until they reached the rough concrete platform, 'You ready for your first touch back on 'ome soil?'

John grinned and answered with a huff of laughter.

As they were in the middle of the queue to leave the boat (they were departing in emergency order) they waited patiently as documents were exchanged and registers were ticked before each person was loaded into an ambulance at rushed off to the nearest hospital.

John's eyes had just finished adjusting to the light (he had spent another hour buried in the dark corners of a ship crossing the channel before arriving in Dover), he looked around, studying the variation in boat sizes, from bug sized orange flashing rescue boats, to lumbering oversized people carriers.

The vast array of vessels were the opposite to people who sat hunched in chairs, or lay flat on stretchers like sitting ducks. Far too vulnerable for John to allow himself more than a minutes peace, he wouldn't be able to let himself out of his soldier mentality for quite a few months, maybe even years, maybe never.

It was for this reason that John was beginning to wonder whether he would class now as his right time to meet the girl he was destined for. That is of course being that they were a girl, and they were going to have either a killer friendship or a romantic relationship.

He had always allowed himself to imagine their meeting, which eventually lead to how she looked, what she'd wear and what kind of person she was. But to prevent these day dreams from becoming his downfall, he would then finish by repeating a phrase he'd come to know well over the years, 'This is all great, but I won't meet her,' here he always slipped up, 'I mean – them, until I've finished with the army and have enough time and money to settle down with a family. Besides, who said we'd have a nice relationship, they may well be the one who sticks a bullet in me.'

Well at least he now had the comfort of knowing that this time, they weren't the ones who had stuck a bullet in him.

The Scottish sailor parked John in front of the check in desk, he leant over the sign in sheet and began to search for his name.

He paused, blinked once and inhaled the crisp sea air, which was suddenly taken over by a peculiar smell, almost like…Dead body?

…

'You stink,' Lestrade remarked.

The police car pulled into the navy docks, with a flash of a badge they flew through security and continued their path through the corrugated metal containers.

'Why did you even make us go the morgue first, you didn't walk out with anything.'

Sherlock was typing furiously on his tiny phone, he only stopped to glance up with an eyebrow raised in disapproval, 'This is the exact reason why you leave the deducting to me.'

'Don't test my patience Sherlock, I'm the one who bought you here remember,' Lestrade glowered at him from the driver's seat, then pulled into the space next to the taped crime scene, 'What did you bring anyway?'

By the boot of the car, Sherlock stopped mid stride.

He smiled pointedly at Lestrade, turned a sharp ninety degree angle so that he was facing the boot, and flicked the door upward.

Laying there, were two right hands in a tupperwear box.

'Jesus Sherlock! Did you steal those?'

He dramatically rolled his eyes and replied, 'Of course I didn't steal them, I am aware of some social obligations.'

'My apologies, I often forget that it's good practice to ask before taking two hands from the mortuary.'

'You're mocking me,' Sherlock said, straight-faced.

Lestrade sighed heavily as he turned and walked down to the nearest officer. As Sherlock neared them he overheard the officer asking if Lestrade had signed in yet, with a huff he said, 'Why do we need to sign in? We're working on a crime scene, I'm fairly sure that's a higher priority.'

'I'm sorry sir, but everyone had to,' he pointed to a sign in desk near the closest desk, 'It's just over there, it won't take a minute.'

As both men walked over towards the single table, Lestrade felt himself being scanned by the machine to the right of him.

'What was the argument about,' Sherlock got no reply, 'Obviously it was with someone close to you, not a family member because last time that happened you wouldn't stop talking about it for ages. A friend or a lover…both? Hmm, you've used a different washing powder. I'm going to say, you had an argument with a close friend, the one you were staying with briefly when you went on holiday, about something personal to you. Oh! How could I be so blind, about a relationship, and now you're staying with said person but you're having trouble sleeping as you're upset about the argument, not with the person you're staying with.'

Lestrade cleared his throat and quickly said, 'Right so the victim was found-'

Sherlock wasn't finished, 'But you're annoyed at me, the body parts don't usually bother you that much. Unless your argument was in some way related to me…Related to me. You argument was about my bro-'

Lestrade had begun a reply, but Sherlock was already too distracted to notice. He attempted to focus on his excuse once, but all he could here was a muffled garble of words, everything sounded as if he was underwater, it was hollow and empty. Suddenly, his hearing returned to what it was, if not ten times better, sounds became sharper and more crisp, a loud growl rumbled through the earth from the ship's hull, and a distant screech from a sea gull echoed around his head.

Dazedly he looked at the line of injured soldiers also making their way to the desk, but he could only see what any normal person would, no details, just what they wearing and what they looked like, not what they _were_ like.

He felt Lestrade reach forward and hold his arm, but before he could register the sensation, an entirely new one swept through.

Pain burst every cell where Lestrade's hand was, his pulse skyrocketed as his body tried to heal the imaginary pain that clenched his muscle in a vice grip.

Then he was fine. Lestrade's voice came became as clear tap water, and all pain vanquished with the blink of an eye.

'I knew I shouldn't have let you work again, this is my fault. They tried to tell me it was too soon, too close to you meeting your person, why didn't I listen! I'm taking you to the hospital.'

'No you are not! A brief lapse that's all, it won't happen again,' Sherlock looked desperately at Lestrade.

'That's what you keep saying, yet here we are. You may have recovered this time, but what if something like happens with no one around and you hit my a bus. I'm taking you to see a specialist, and you're not going to argue.'

…

**One more Chapter!**


	6. An Unwanted Hospital Trip

**Final chapter, woo!**

An Unwanted Hospital Trip With A Wanted Ending

Lestrade rolled his eyes as he heard grumbles of protest emanate from the backseat of the car.

'If you do that any louder you'll cause an earthquake,' he said, looking at Sherlock through the mirror.

He raised an eyebrow in response.

'Just humor me okay? We'll get there, go see a specialist and then leave. It'll take five minutes tops.'

He pulled the car into the visitors bay and climbed out, he heard the door slam behind him and turned to find that the genius's idiotic behaviour hadn't changed, and his face still largely resembled that of a bull dog licking piss off a nettle.

Lestrade breathed a short laugh as they approached the entrance of the clinical, pristine building. Having contacted the hospital before their arrival, he told the receptionist the details and they were pointed in the direction of the waiting room.

I preparation of Sherlock aggravating the other patients in the room, he choose two seats at the front of the room, this way it would be obvious if Sherlock was deducing the other patients, and then Lestrade would be able stop him as quickly as possible.

He knew from experience that a grumpy Sherlock picking your worst habits from you when you're less than healthy, was not a reason for celebration.

Alas, Sherlock had seen his reasoning for their current location, and slowly rolled his head to the right, looking at Lestrade through his eyelashes.

He bristled under the attention the hired detective was giving him. _This is not going to end well_, Lestrade thought, _don't punch him, don't punch him, don't punch him. Think of what his brother would say. Do NOT punch him._

'How's the divorce going?'

'SHERLOCK, LEAVE ME ALONE FOR ONE SECOND WOULD YOU! I'M DOING YOU A FAOUR AND ALL YOU'RE DOING IS WINDING ME UP.'

The entire of the waiting room were staring at the odd pair, some with humor, some were holding their children closer.

A warm chuckle bounced across the room, it came from the doctor who stood by the entrance of the waiting room, clip board in hand, a stethoscope hanging around his neck, head to toe covered in tweed.

He peered over the rim of his half-moon glasses, and beckoned for them to follow him.

They were lead down a few winding hallways until they came to room nearly identical to the ones surrounding it, only this one smelt strongly of…pine?

'I'll wait outside,' Lestrade said, hovering awkwardly.

The consultant said quite merrily in response, 'It says on my notes that a Mr M Holmes has said that he wishes the detective inspector, whom I assume is you, to sit in on this particular appointment. It then says, and I quote, _to keep him inline_.'

'Oh for Christ sakes,' Sherlock mumbled as he walked past the doctor and sat noisily in the chair, 'well what are you waiting for?'

Lestrade smiled apologetically at the doctor who fortunately didn't seem in the slightest put off.

'Now young man, what seems to be the problem?' The doctor said thoughtfully as he settled into his chair with a small groan.

'Seeing as my _notes_ not only had a message from my brother in, but also the hospital was informed of my…Issue, before we arrived by Lestrade, I'm fairly certain that you already know what you think is wrong with me,' Sherlock glared challengingly at the doctor, as an afterthought he added, 'Doctor Camble.'

Again, he chuckled warmly at his antics, 'That may be the case, however, I would like to hear it from you, that is after all why you are here. Otherwise, I could diagnose and treat from across the country.'

Sherlock said nothing, Lestrade looked warily between the two.

'Well if you won't say I will,' he turned to Doctor Camble and started from the beginning, 'The first we noticed something was wrong, we were at a crime scene, Sherlock, Donovan and Anderson were fighting again (nothing unusual I assure you) I honestly thought that Sherlock was about to punch him, when suddenly, he stopped. He looked empty, and sad, like something horrible had happened, you said that's how you felt didn't you?' He looked at Sherlock briefly, then continued, 'Then Sherlock complained about his back, which is when we saw the light, it was about the size of a bullet and was glowing a terrible red, blood red. So naturally, we all came to conclusions about what had happened, but that was when Sherlock felt them being bought back to life, after all this I sent him home.'

Lestrade looked at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, 'I…uh, well Mrs Hudson informed me and Mycroft that it sounded like Sherlock had a nightmare-'

'You what?' Finally, Sherlock had taken an interest in the appointment.

Doctor Camble intervened, 'What was it about Sherlock?'

'I- It-it was nothing. Merely a dream, nothing else.'

'I think we both know that's not entirely true, you dreamed of their location, or were you seeing things from their eyes?'

'I was watching over them, but I couldn't help them, the other soldier just left them there and they were going to die again, I knew it! But I could only see that they were an army doctor, I couldn't deduce anything,' he broke off, both stunned at his outburst and disappointed by his own failure.

'This is quite common after the other half of any bond has died or had a near death experience, and you wouldn't have been able to…What did you call it? Deduce, anything from the dream, you would only have been able to see what you needed to,' he gave Sherlock a small smile, 'And then what happened?'

Seeing that Sherlock was in no mood to reply, Lestrade answered again for him, 'Mycroft spoke to him in the shops and then later that day he came down to ask about the case again. I caved after a while, my god he can be annoying, and that was when we saw a young couple first meet. They didn't have a string bond or anything, but it was still nice to see, doesn't happen every day,' he finished with a light smile gracing his words as he recalled their meeting.

'But then we went down to the navy dock yard, a mundane case, but something to keep him occupied. That was when he spaced out, when I touched him it was like I had acid on my hands, that was when I decided to bring him here,' he looked at Sherlock, concern making him appear older than he was.

'How did it feel as you found yourself being pulled away, like you were going to pass out?'

'Yet again, everything went blurry, I could see people, but I didn't know anything about them. My hearing changed and then Lestrade grabbed my arm, after the brief burst of pain, I was fine. Can I go now?'

He made to move, but the Doctor spoke before he could stand, 'I'm afraid,' he said gravely, checking his pager, 'that we are somewhat understaffed in the ER at the moment. So, I'm going to place you on the ward in case anything happens like this again. Come now, before you argue, if the symptoms you are telling me are really happening, then it won't be long until you meet your person and you may leave the care of the hospital. Until then, I would like to keep you under observation. Follow me.'

It took five minutes to convince Sherlock that this wasn't going to kill him, and by the end Lestrade had agreed to bring to him cases, none the less, he did try to make a break for it three times. Finally, with the assistance of two security members they had Sherlock sitting, full clothed on a bed in the Keller Ward, his face like everything around him was covered in the foulest stench imaginable. He was glaring at Lestrade who sat in the visitors chair next to him, as though by being patient and caring (as much as you can be with Sherlock) he had caused him the most offence that anyone ever had.

…

The ER was packed to the brim as soldiers were sent off to various parts of the hospital.

John found himself parked precariously in the middle of a long row of beds, the people either side of him were both fast asleep, or unconscious, he decided he'd rather not know.

He lay of the gurney, enjoying the surprising comfort that it had to offer him. Closing his eyes and finding a mildly comfortable position in which to rest his shoulder, he let each muscle relax and loosen.

It wasn't the sounds of beeping machines and whining patients that bothered him. It was a small niggle in the back of head, like a tiny ant was crawling in his hair. In annoyance he brushed it away and resumed his position.

But it was to no avail, as he found that the tickle was spreading, less of itch now and more of a nagging sensation, not dissimilar to when you've forgotten something important.

In the brief space of a few seconds John went from nearly asleep to wide awake.

He hadn't forgotten anything, but he was late, no not late…

He had…

Johns brain worked furiously as he tried to remember what he should have been doing. But he done everything, so he must needed to speak to someone.

A nurse maybe? A doctor passed by his bed going to the patient next to him.

'Excuse me?' John had no idea what he was asking for.

'Yes,' a older man dressed in tweed with small, half-moon glasses turned to him and smiled politely, 'How many I help you?'

'Well, I don't actually know,' in a desperate attempt to explain himself he stumbled over his words, 'I feel like maybe I needed to tell you something, or-or maybe see someone, like a friend or a relative?'

He looked at the doctor, his pleading expression made him vulnerable and younger.

'I'm going to need you to close your eyes and describe to me the person you see, or the location you find yourself in.'

Slightly sceptical, John slowly let his eyes close. He was shocked to find himself pulled into the ER, it was as if he hadn't even closed his eyes, but then he was moving fast up flights of stairs, past signs and hordes of people congregating in corridors.

He eyes flew open as if he woken from a dream, he was breathing more heavily as he threw the bed sheet off him and ran past the kind doctor who had a knowing smile on his face.

He had seen one sign that stuck out clear as day, 'Keller Ward.'

…

Sherlock was standing as the nurse took his coat and blazer from him, she was glad that he had finally complied (this had nothing to do the return of the security guards).

As he stood having a staring match with the larger of the two guards, he noticed the arrival of two of Scotland Yard's more annoying staff.

'What are you two doing here?' He sneered, as the nurse gently pushed him to sit back the bed.

Lestrade didn't look up from his phone as he replied, 'I believe they wanted pictures.'

He turned to face the heart rate monitor, and watched while it started to beep faster and faster as it gained nearer to his own heart rate. The nurse glanced at it, and then adjusted how she had positioned it on his hand. Yet still, it continued to beat as if he just gone for a run.

She pressed her fingers to his pulse and checked her watch, there was no mistake.

Sherlock noticed that he had become clammy and fidgety with nerves. Not nerves, anticipation.

He jumped from his seat and looked at Lestrade, who was currently quite alarmed by the sudden flush to Sherlock's usually pale complexion.

Before Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson or the nurse had time to stop him, he had bounded a few steps towards the end of his bed, where the security guards just managed to each grab an arm.

'No, let me go! I need to go, please. Lestrade tell them!'

'What do you mean Sherlock? You heard what the Doctor said, not until anything happens,' he said, a mixture of surprised and confused and his pleading tone.

'For crying out loud, it _is_ happening you idiots!'

Sherlock had returned, thus inclining Lestrade to trust him a little more, 'They're here, where?'

Sherlock threw a hand up and pointed directly forward, down the centre of the room towards the distant door.

Deciding that they weren't acting quick enough he managed to slip through the security guards temporarily loosened grip and start to run towards the door.

…

John pounded up the stairs, his feet carrying him in the direction he needed to go, dodging around stunned patients and staff.

He rounded a corner and set off down a corridor, his army uniform that he yet to change for the hospital gown seemed weightless, his only thought on the person he was about to meet.

He'd always assumed they would be a woman, but now he wasn't so sure, or at least he wasn't so sure that he cared, as he just wished that they were healthy and happy and wonderful, and _god_! He was so excited he could barely contain it!

He saw a flash of a sigh in the corner of his eye, Keller Ward, and followed it down to a set of double doors that he threw open before him.

He stopped.

The room seemed to freeze before him, a silence fell like a fire blanket as it quickly extinguished any sound that was being made before.

…

Sherlock's brief run slowed to a near halt, as the only sound that could be heard was his own erratic heart monitor machine, still beeping frantically even though the monitor clip had long since left his hand.

…

Everything was deadly still. Even the people on the phones at the desk had gone quiet. Not a sound could be heard except for one particularly noisy heart monitor.

Both men waited with baited breath.

John looked at him, properly looked even though they were still quite far apart he could feel him. He took in his height and pale skin, his curly mess of hair and full lips, his piecing colour changing gaze and well-tailored shirt and trousers.

Sherlock looked at him, he didn't _look_, he didn't need to. He already knew everything he wanted to. For the moment he was content to take in his height and weather warn skin, his sandy hair with streaks of silver and slightly smiling mouth, his deep blue eyes and uniform with a familiar red cross on his right arm.

'What the hell are you waiting for?' Lestrade said, still looking at the other man on the opposite side of the hall, 'Do something!'

Sherlock took a few slow steps forward, afraid that he might him off.

John copied his movements and again, let his feet carry him forward.

All those around them began to notice the gentle pure white glow that had slowly started to emanate from their every cell. As they grew closer to one another it only became brighter and more powerful, until the onlookers had begun to watch through squinted eyes behind their hands.

They now stood no more than a foot apart. Neither wanted to say anything, as neither one of felt they needed to.

But Sherlock being Sherlock, couldn't resist, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'

John breathed out, 'Sorry?'

Still captured by the shorter man's eyes, he repeated, 'Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?'

'Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-'

'Not important.'

'No, definitely not on my current list of priorities,' he murmured.

Sherlock leant down and gently pressed his lips against Johns, he then wrapped one arm around Sherlock's back to pull him closer, while the other pulled him down by his shirt.

Sherlock, after a second of questioning how to proceed found that he had already had his hands supporting John's head.

John broke off, but barely pulled back, 'I don't even know your name.'

'Sherlock.'

He reached up and kissed him again, 'John.'

Another, brief kiss punctuated his name, to which Sherlock replied, 'You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor.'

'Yes.'

'Any good?'

They were still just a hair widths apart, both sets of eyes dances over the others features, planning where to go next.

'Very good,' almost as a demonstration, he said this, and left a kiss, on his pulse point. It was still racing wildly.

'Seen a lot of injuries, then?' He tried not to become too distracted by John's actions as he made his way around his face, leaving soft kisses in his place, 'Violent deaths?'

Sherlock stooped again to kiss John fully, leaving with just enough breath to reply, 'Yes.'

He let his hands drop from his head to rest one on his face, and for the other to weave around his back over his injury, 'Bit of trouble, too, I bet.'

John looked directly into his eyes, 'Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime...Far too much.'

The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly in what John could already tell was his trademark smirk, 'Want to see some more?'

John grinned ear to ear, 'Oh, God yes.'

…

**Thanks for sticking with it until the end :)**


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